Methods
by SallySorrell
Summary: Triumvirate characterization pieces, 300 words each. See how they function with each member missing.


**Please enjoy some medicine-induced triumvirate characterizations. Each piece is exactly 300 words, and explores how they balance each other, blah blah blah. Enjoy!**

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**__**_Medicine_

"No exit wound," sighed McCoy, reeling between all types of rocks. The literal ones, hurled at the unsuspecting officers, and the figurative one – the captain that stood close beside him and refused to let him go.

"Bones," begged Captain Kirk. They settled on the hot sand, both clawing vainly at the wound.

"Doctor McCoy," Spock began, "It will not profit you to—"

"Spock," Kirk shook the interfering dust free from his communicator, "Call Scotty. Tell him to fire phasers one and two."

"The Enterprise has already left orbit."

"_Call Scotty_." He wiped the blood onto his uniform, and tossed down the communicator.

Spock accepted the device, and ducked between boulders for safety. From the natives, they received an assortment of darts and lead-coated pebbles. Before the attacks began, Spock theorized about the development of firearms on this planet.

His idea was confirmed, as McCoy dug for the crude bullet which had shattered within his shoulder. Kirk tore the strap from the abandoned tricorder, and tugged it tightly around the doctor's arm. The fabric of his uniform was purple now, splotched with blood and collecting the unusual dirt.

"No. Take 'em out."

Kirk shook his head at these instructions, more in disbelief than refusal. Temporarily, he contracted McCoy's paralysis; he watched with his mouth open as McCoy twisted his shaky fingers beneath his shirt-collar.

"Jim," he contributed the last of his strength to the request, "I can't… I need…"

Spock turned, setting down the communicator as he shuffled toward them.

"Every piece of the bullet must be removed," Spock said. He reached forward to begin his work; one hand prevented the doctor from moving, while the other precisely peeled away the shrapnel.

The captain retreated and cried into the communicator. The sky glowed, and the firing ceased.

Passion and precision.

_Memory_

Spock stepped cautiously toward the voices. These belonged to Kirk and McCoy, comparing readings of the new planet.

"Find anything?" Kirk stood and met him, past the vines they were studying.

"I do not believe I am acclimating properly to this atmosphere."

"I'll say," said McCoy, "You look a little… well, I can't say 'red', can I? What would you call that, Jim?"

"It _is _red," he nodded. He held Spock's forearm, and leaned in to study both sides of the Vulcan's face, "Why don't you return to the ship, Spock? I'll let Scotty know."

"The… ship?"

McCoy turned a dial, to silence his tricorder.

"Are you feeling alright, Spock?"

The Vulcan blinked, slowly stacking each eyelid. He had difficulty reopening his eyes. Gently, the doctor stepped between them, running one hand absently through his medical kit.

"No," said Spock, after finally opening both eyes. His face was entirely encircled by the foreign color, and radiated unnerving warmth. Jim brushed his hand over Spock's cheeks, remarking about the temperature in a hushed voice. The doctor nodded and checked the contents a vial, by shaking it.

"Tell me what's wrong." Though Kirk's tone was impossibly gentle, it reached forward and strangled something within Spock.

"I am feeling," words curled through his lips like bitter smoke, "_everything_."

McCoy watched, trying to compose a helpful diagnosis. He counted the drops that fought free of the vial.

"That's fine, Spock," Kirk said. He held the Science Officer still, while the liquid seeped into his skin, "We'll get you back to the ship."

The drops were quickly replaced by tears. Spock was overwhelmed; he didn't remember a ship. He panicked, as the transporting beam wrapped around him.

McCoy stared at the dissipating cloud and shook his head.

"He'll be fine," Kirk assured.

"Let me worry."

_Machination_

McCoy paced on the Bridge, embarrassed by the frequent stops his hands made on the captain's chair. Scotty would turn, give a half-hearted smile, and wait for the doctor to drag his hands away.

The speakers crackled:

"Spock to Bridge."

"Scott here, Sir."

"I shall require an additional scan of the planet. Record presence of all life-forms."

"Aye, Sir," he chirped, "Comin' right up." He released the button, which engaged the microphone, "You heard him, Laddie."

Eagerly, Chekov stepped to Spock's station, switching on the instruments and reading the data as it appeared.

McCoy watched, hesitant of the situation. Theoretically, he did not need to ask permission before slamming his hand over the microphone.

"Spock," he called, "Where's Jim?"

"Unknown."

McCoy had never run, willingly, to the Transporter Room. Fear possessed him, as he ordered the confused Ensign to beam him directly to Spock's location.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?!" the words arrived before the entirety of McCoy's body. Spock stood before him, giving a calculated gaze.

"I gave the necessary orders to the Bridge."

"That's not good enough, Spock!"

"I was unaware that you required constant knowledge of the captain's location."

"If you were up there, you'd wanna know too. Can you think about how _I _feel, Spock? Just _think_ about it."

"Really, Doctor; I see no benefit in shouting." He did not mention the lack of logic in empathy.

"I came down here to find Jim," he said, "And I'll shout if I need to." Instantly, he took up his offer, calling out "Jim!" in all directions.

The scan did not locate Jim; intuition did. McCoy found him, gasping at the base of a primitive building. Spock watched, as they ran toward each other.

"Something about my heart… they needed me alone."

"That's not gonna happen."

Kirk smiled.


End file.
